


Six Weeks

by thelilnan



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Fingerfucking, M/M, Rough Sex, Rutting, Tenderness, hypothetical kaiju sex, what a good tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilnan/pseuds/thelilnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've known each other for six weeks.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Rated for strong language, weird-ass dirty talk (involving a hypothetical kaiju and the term "boy cunt"), and general rough sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Weeks

Six weeks.

“Do you like that, you little slut?”

They’ve known each other for six weeks.

“I asked you a question.”

They’ve hated each other for six weeks.

“Yes—!”

“Yes _what_?”

They’ve been fucking each other for three.

It’s always the same. It used to be hard and fast and over before they could start fighting and pulling each other apart, screaming and clawing and dissolving into furious rutting again. It changed, somehow, and it takes more time now. It always ends with Newt bent over or on his knees, gripping at a desk, a wall, a chalkboard, or Hermann himself. His glasses always get thrown away. He can’t see; too much heat, too much pleasure, and he’s choking on Hermann’s name—

“Yes, sir!” he finally manages to say. He’s shaking, his thighs are spread, ass in the air, Hermann’s fingers digging into his neck and pushing _in_ , curling _inside_ ; he’s going to die this time. He knows it. His eyelids are fluttering, he’s drooling on the desk, his thighs are sticky with too much lubricant. His vision’s going and his heart is in his ears. There’s too much _heat_. He’s going to die.

“Ask for more,” Hermann instructs firmly and really, how can he? His brain is short-circuiting and Hermann is milking his prostate so hard that he can’t even utter a sound. He’s going to die.

He’s known Hermann for six weeks.

He should have expected this. The quiet stare, the narrowed eyes, the incredible patience. He was always holding something back, Newt could tell. He never predicted what, though. Never saw it when Hermann finally snapped, shoved him to the blackboard, and bit his mouth so hard Newt _screamed_ into his mouth. But it was so _good_. Left him achingly hard as Hermann stormed away, gimping awkwardly despite his rage. Newt barely had to press his palm to his groin before he came with a gasping shudder.

That was three weeks ago.

And now, three weeks later, Newt is naked and gasping and dripping and drooling beneath Hermann, who hasn’t even undone the top button of his shirt. He’s still wearing his sweater, for Christ’s sake! Newt bucks sharply, without warning, and lets out a long, wanton sound. Hermann presses harder on his neck.

“Shut up, _slut_.”

He’s going to come.

Hermann hasn’t even touched his cock and he’s about to come. He can feel it, oh God, he tries to say something but Hermann just presses harder on his prostate and Newt screams—

He doesn’t come.

Hermann moves behind him, lurching up to press his hips to Newt’s ass, which is suddenly missing his fingers. Newt barely registers it. He glances back, over his shoulder, to see Hermann flustered and panting through his nose. Feels him press his cock against his ass. It’s still in his trousers. He hasn’t even taken them off.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Hermann practically snarls, pressing against Newt harder and harder until his cock bumps the desk and Newt hisses because, _shit_ , it’s cold.

“I’m going to fuck your little boy cunt,” Hermann grits out, grinding against Newt’s ass, “You’re wet for me, aren’t you?” 

He’s ready, he’s so ready, God, why doesn’t he just do it?! His wrists are pinned and he’s at Hermann’s total mercy, barely able to make a sound to affirm or encourage him. Whatever, Hermann knows what he wants. It’s what he always wants.

Somehow, it always comes to this point.

Finally, Hermann shuffles down his trousers enough and presses _in_ , without another word, and Newt starts making these pathetic, hitched noises, louder and louder until Hermann bottoms out and he’s so fucking _full_. God, Jesus, Mary, and all the saints. Newt can’t even breathe. He’s suffocated, bottomed out, filled to the brim and panting for a clear breath.

Hermann sighs above him and Newt looks back. He seems, for a moment, to actually be reveling in Newt’s heat, his tightness. He seems to be enjoying this, and isn’t that odd? All to soon, the bubble is popped and Hermann looks down. Sets his mouth into a line and grabs Newt’s hips, lifts them up just a fraction higher to throw Newt off-balance and starts fucking him in firm, forceful, _deep_ thrusts. From there, Newt’s vision whites out and he’s gone, caught in Hermann’s rhythm where he doesn’t have to think, or worry, or anything. Just _feel_.

“You fucking slut,” Hermann grinds out, shoving into him, “You’re drifting off. Are you thinking of someone else?”

Newt barely manages a protest before Hermann starts fucking into him with purpose. Then he whines.

“Probably a kaiju, you pervert. You’re so fucking disgusting,” Newt moans enthusiastically, “Look at you! You wish I was a kaiju, don’t you! A-A small one. Who finds you. Mounts you. Tries to br- _breed_ you!”

Hermann’s losing himself, as Newt is, in the fantasy. The two move together, desperate and without rhythm, gripping each other and anything they can grab to sturdy themselves. It’s overwhelming. It’s exciting. Newt _loves_ Hermann’s dirty talk, even the weird stuff. Especially the weird stuff.

“Yes...” Newt finally gasps, eyes closed in bliss. Mainly, he loves Hermann’s accent. Loves his accusations, his debasement, loves the filthy things he says. He can’t even explain it half the time, why these things have the affect they do, but they do, and he’s amping up to climax once more as Hermann starts fucking him harder, faster, gasping out filthy fantasies.

“You wouldn’t even fight it—!” Hermann’s fingernails are bruising Newt’s hips.

“No...”

“You’d come untouched, filled with the beast—”

Newt comes apart sharply, crying out and staining the desk. Hermann’s fingers are interlaced with his—when did that happen? Newt sobs out the last of it as Hermann keeps fucking him, gritting his teeth and bowing his head, shaking, and finally coming with a short grunt. Newt feels it fill him up and shudders hard.

They don’t talk afterwards. Newt knows what’s coming next. As always, Hermann will pull free and leave Newt to clean himself up. It’s what he has always done, from the first desperate rutting in a janitor’s closet to the first time they made it into acceptable quarters and Hermann had fingered Newt to orgasm. They try to keep it impersonal. It’s the only saving grace they have for this indiscretion.

Except.

Except this time Hermann stays inside until he grows soft, gripping Newt’s hand and petting his hip, almost unconsciously. Newt is slow to notice the tenderness, but does not, cannot miss the soft and mouthing kiss Hermann places at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. In contrast to the sharp and fast fucking, the kiss feels like cool salve on a burn. Newt turns his head against the desk and Hermann does it again, placing more tender kisses over his neck and shoulder and sighing so quietly that, if he weren’t so close to Newt’s ear, he would miss them. But he doesn’t. He lies there, sticky with sweat and semen and God knows what else and lets Hermann kiss him. The hand on his hip slides up to his belly. Newt closes his eyes.

This is new.

Newt feels as though he should say something. His voice gets caught in his throat every time he tries. Hermann keeps kissing him and petting him and Newt thinks he might melt. Then Hermann reaches his ear and licks it hesitantly, and Newt inhales, fingers squeezing Hermann’s.

They stay like that for a moment more. Then Hermann pulls away, one hand ghosting over Newt’s back, and he steps back. His clothes are ruined. He’ll have to change. Newt’s have been scattered over the room. The man himself looks absolutely _ruined_. Hermann finds a small thrill in that.

“Good evening, Dr. Geiszler.”

And he leaves.

Newt stands, propped up by shaking arms, and though he’s been used, abused, and practically fucked through the desk, the most remnant sensation is the hesitant tongue at his ear. He clasps a hand over it, staring at the stained and sweaty desk beneath him, and exhales deeply.

Six weeks.

_Is that some kind of anniversary?_


End file.
